I recently had a shocking revelation. I’d hitched a ride from my brother to a friend’s party and on the way, I asked him to pull over at a liquor store so I could “run in and get a bottle of wine.” He had a long drive ahead of him so I did actually try to run. Tried and failed. I was wearing heels. I was able to move quickly, but the faster I went, the smaller my steps were. When I returned to the car, I said something about how it’s not possible to run in heels and we started talking about how vulnerable that makes me. I wouldn’t be able to get away quickly in a potentially dangerous situation. Even the most mannerly mugger/rapist/killer would grow impatient waiting for me to unbuckle my shoes so that I could make a run for it.
This revelation couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m heading to London this September to work on a master’s degree. I’ve been going through all of my clothes and belongings, trying to decide what I’ll be bringing with me and I’ve come to realize that while I have ten shelves of fabulous shoes, I have only about four pairs that I could actually spend an entire day in. Three of these pairs are sneakers and the other a pair of Doc Marten Mary Janes, which although they’re just right for some ensembles, are pretty outdated, much like the flannel shirts I wore them with back in ’94.
Although I certainly like to play with fashion at times, for the most part I prefer to blend in, and to do so in London means that I’ll have to kick the sneaker habit. I have prolonged this abandonment of comfort for years now with the rationalization that surely my coddled tootsies are insufficiently prepared—and hardened—to handle real shoes. But London’s calling, and the fear of being turned away at Customs has me now turning away from my trainers.
Last week, I jumped feet first into a week of the very cutest sandals, heels, and slides on errands and around town. By Saturday, my feet were covered in blisters and I had relapsed to my sneakers.
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